The Cellist and I at the Symphony

By John Grey

I perk up at the dozen violins,
but one mournful cello
sinks me back in my sorrow.
Sure, the brass is a blast.

 

But for every trumpet voluntary,
there’s a mandated down passage,
when the octave drops like my mouth,
and strings are scraped,

 

the same elemental notes are played
in my heart’s imperfect fifths.
So pound on, percussionist.
Sub for the angels, harpist.

 

And you, on the piano,
play that spirit-lifting melody.
You spread light but not near enough.
For the cellist is a shadow in waiting

 

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter